


Rhythm With a Side of Blues

by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: I really need to get out more, M/M, McLennon, Motel Room Sex, Soul-Searching, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 20:53:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11791266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cpenguing/pseuds/Celebratory%20Penguin
Summary: John nudged Paul with his shoulder. "Sometimes, when the kids are screaming and we can't hardly hear ourselves, I can feel your bass through the soles of my shoes and it's all that keeps me in time."A story about rhythm with a side of self-doubt.





	Rhythm With a Side of Blues

Rhythm With a Side of Blues

________________________________________________________________________________________________

New Zealand, 1964

"Best fucking rhythm section of all time," Ringo slurred, flinging one arm around John and the other around Paul. "That's what we are, my friends."

They were in yet another anonymous hotel room in a New Zealand town that John couldn't remember the name of. His ears still rang with the shrieks and screams that had drowned out their music at both shows tonight. Night after night after night, the same howling madness surrounded them and nearly deafened them. It made him long for the simplicity of a "germ bomb" threat, which was at least quiet.

"You're quite right, Ringo," Paul said mildly, looking past Ringo to John and smiling the way one might smile over the head of a clever toddler who had just recited the alphabet. 

"Especially since we're having to do it by telepathy. Or by my keeping the beat by looking at John's arse," Ringo declared boozily. He punched John in the arm. "Best rhythmic arse of all time!"

John heard himself laugh, clear and strong, as he hugged Ringo around the waist. He'd missed Ringo so much at the start of the tour. Jimmy was a nice enough bloke and a more than competent drummer, but there could only ever be one Ringo. 

George was sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around his long legs. With eyes bleary from lack of sleep and excessive alcohol, he peered up at the three men who were sitting on Paul's bed. "If you lot are the greatest rhythm section of all time, then what the hell does that leave me with?" he drawled, raising both eyebrows.

"You are," Ringo half-hiccuped, "the greatest guitar god of all time. I bow down to your genius." He wriggled free of Paul and John and knelt, unsteadily, at George's feet. "I absolutely prostate myself before you."

That set John off again. "Think you left out an 'r' there, Ringo!" he chuckled.

Ringo's cloudy blue eyes were uncomprehending. "Does 'before' have two r's?" he asked as George dissolved into helpless laughter.

"You'd best get him to bed before a real malapropism festival starts," John told George. 

"Right. C'mere, Ringo, let's put you to bed." George untangled his legs and rose, his cheeks still a bit flushed with Ringo's compliment. He yanked Ringo to his feet and frog-marched him out the door. "G'night, fellas," he called over his shoulder, then cocked his hip at the door to force it closed.

John was still laughing. "He's a trip, that Ringo," he declared. "But he's not wrong. We are tight, now that he's back. Tighter than tight. We're amazing!"

Whatever reaction he'd hoped to get from Paul did not include having him stare into the middle distance, gnawing distractedly at a hangnail on his left thumb.

Normally, John was pleased when Paul's guard came down. Only to him did Paul express fears and doubts, when to the rest of the world he presented such a calm facade. But tonight, Paul's reaction seemed out of rhythm and John wanted to get to the bottom of it.

"Let's have 'em," John wheedled.

Paul was slow to respond, turning fractionally toward John and dropping his hand to his side. "Sorry, what?"

John tilted his head. "Penny for your thoughts. I'm offering actual money. Filthy lucre."

"Save your cash, 'cause I haven't any thoughts."

"That's a lie, Macca. Your head's full to bursting with the pesky things and they're starting to leak out your eyeballs."

Paul brought the middle finger of his right hand up to his face and wiped his eye with it, then held it up to John. "Can you read this one?"

That wasn't like Paul. He could be stroppy sometimes, and occasionally downright acerbic, but was seldom so uncommunicative. John scooted into the space where Ringo had been sitting. The bed was still warm from his presence, but John could have sworn that Paul's aura lowered the temperature in the room by ten degrees.

"Hey," John murmured, "if you can't tell me what's eating you, how can you--"

"Just fucking leave it, okay?" 

"Right. Fuck you, then." John stood abruptly, his heart hammering. "I'll go across to theirs."

The thought of kipping on the floor held no appeal, but neither did sharing a room with a fuming, sullen Paul. John gathered his night clothes from the untidy pile on the chair and was headed for the door when Paul's voice stopped him.

"Planning to sleep in your suit jacket, are you?"

John squinted at the clothing in his arms. What he'd thought were his pyjamas was actually the coat of his gray stage costume. "Sure. Thought I'd let the tackle hang free tonight," he quipped.

"Ringo just got out of the hospital. You could scar the poor lad for life."

John fumbled in his trouser pocket for his glasses and set them on the bridge of his nose. "You seem to have survived the horrific sight," he said as blandly as he could. There was something unnerving in the way Paul's eyes drooped more than normal, a premonition of an older and sadder man to come.

No brilliantly successful man of just-turned-twenty-two should look like that.

"Yeah," Paul breathed. "I should get a fucking medal."

"For valor above and beyond the call of duty," John said softly, crossing back to the bed and letting the jacket slide to the floor. He took his place next to Paul again, leaning against him and wondering what to do next. 

Paul's body wilted heavily against John and he let his head tip over onto John's shoulder. Surprised, John began stroking the dark hair, still damp at the roots with stage sweat. "Tell us," he whispered. 

Paul nestled a little closer, eyes closed. "Remember when we were learning guitar? All the things we were gonna do?"

So, so many afternoons ago, golden with sun and the thrill of sagging off school, they'd taught each other everything they knew and improvised everything they didn't. The memory touched off something warm in John. "I'd say we've done 'em, son."

Paul shook his head. "You have, sure. And George has, even more than you. But all I've got is the bass, and it's not the same thing. It's not where I thought I'd be."

Taken aback, John let his hand slide from Paul's hair to his upper arm, holding him tightly. "That's what's gotten into your head, then? Thinking that the bass isn't as 'good' as guitars?"

John could feel the rueful smile as Paul mumbled into his shoulder, "It sounds daft when you say it."

"Damn right it does, because it IS daft." John felt a fierce rush of protectiveness wash over him. Didn't Paul know? Hadn't he read the sheaves of articles calling him the greatest bass player of his generation, a mastermind and innovator, a virtuoso? Didn't he feel what his playing did to the band?

What it did to John?

"You're the one who makes the music move. Sure, Ringo gets it started, and I turn the lights on, but you're the one who makes it dance." John nudged Paul with his shoulder. "Sometimes, when the kids are screaming and we can't hardly hear ourselves, I can feel your bass through the soles of my shoes and it's all that keeps me in time."

"That's good, I guess," Paul said around a small yawn.

"Hey!" John jostled him. "I'm complimenting you. Least you could do is stay awake for it." 

Paul raised his head and looked at John through heavy-lidded eyes. "You're complimenting my playing, so I must be asleep and dreaming already."

John scowled. "I give your playing plenty of compliments," he said, but he had trouble remembering the last time he'd done it. They were having a tumultous year, after all, making a film and scrambling for enough material for the follow-up to the soundtrack, all the while running and touring, always running and touring.

"Or not," John conceded after a moment's thought.

Shrugging, Paul pulled away from John and started to undress. "Doesn't matter," he said in an offhand tone that didn't fool either of them. "I'm knackered. Time for bed."

Not for the wide world would John have asked if Paul was coming to HIS bed or if he preferred to sulk alone. He lacked the gene that let him express his needs in words, so he had to find another way.

Squinting, he came across the fancy tape recorder Brian had given Paul for his birthday. John fumbled with the small stack of compact cassettes - he was still unsure exactly how they worked - until he found what he needed.

Paul either didn't notice the noise or didn't care, but he didn't turn around until he heard the opening chord of "A Hard Day's Night." John noticed Paul's sudden interest and fiddled with the controls until the treble was nearly suppressed and Paul's bass soared into the air between them.

"That's genius, Paul," John whispered as the surprising counter-melody thrummed from the speakers. Paul was standing still, his eyes half-closed as they always were when he was listening acutely. John sidled up to him and put his hand gently on Paul's bare shoulder. "You're a prodigy, mate. You think George or I could've come up with that bass line? Well, George, maybe, but not me."

Paul's lips quirked up in a tiny smile.

Buoyed by Paul's reaction, John ran his hand down Paul's arm and took his hand, tugging at it. "C'mon, baby, dance with me." John started something along the lines of a jitterbug but gave up when Paul started laughing at him.

"You're a nutter, John Lennon," he declared, but his smile was finally genuine.

John changed to a slower dance, undulating against Paul in time with the bass line. Shifting his weight, John pressed Paul against the wall and moved in perfect synchronization with the music, hips moving upwards and downwards as the bass line rose and fell.

"Mmm. You're good at that," Paul said in a hazy, dark voice.

"Best rhythm section on the planet. Ringo said so."

"Please, for the love of God, don't bring Ringo into this!"

Chuckling, John put his fingers on Paul's chin and gave him a tender kiss. "You don't fancy a threesome, then?"

"It kind of is." Paul punctuated his words with little kisses along John's sensitive jawbone. "You, me, and the Höfner."

"That's okay then," John managed to say despite breathlessly extending his neck so Paul could reach more of his skin. "The Höfner's a good lad, doesn't kiss and tell."

Paul clutched John's hips, pulling him closer. "You dropped a beat there. We need another take."

"Sorry. Got distracted. Besides, the song's almost over."

They both stopped, breathing hard, as the tape ended and left a sonic chasm between them. Paul's face was flushed with arousal, yet turned slightly away from John, dark eyes cast shyly toward the floor. John took Paul's hands in his and brought them to his face, kissing each fingertip. Paul's fingers always smelled of tobacco and the vetiver of his cologne, with a metallic tang from the bass strings, and John thought he could get high just from the scent of them.

"Never doubt yourself," John said, firmly but gently. He felt Paul shiver beneath his hands and embraced him, bringing their bodies together. "I mean it, Paul."

Paul nodded, then raised his head to look John straight in the eye. "I'll never doubt you, at any rate."

It was as close to a declaration of love as John had ever heard. Paul, HIS Paul, for all his love songs and sweet voice, was by far the more wary of the two. It was always John who uttered words of love, to which Paul replied with kisses and caresses but never with words. 

When Paul leaned in to kiss him, John smiled against the lips he knew as well as his own. When Paul quietly said, "Thank you," John's heart began beating so hard he thought the world could hear it.

Then when Paul whispered, "Take me to bed, Johnny," he nearly wept at the beauty of it all.

Later, much later, when they had shattered under one another's touches, John felt Paul curling up next to him, resting his head on John's chest. John hooked his chin over Paul's scalp. The sex-mussed black locks tickled delightfully against his neck. 

"I love you, Paul."

He'd cried it out at the moment Paul's gentle fingers had undone him, and had moaned it over and over, softly, as he coaxed Paul to follow him. Now he was simply stating it. He tensed, waiting for Paul to respond.

Slowly, Paul brought his hand over John's heart and pressed it there, his fingers still quivering in the aftermath of passion. "This is where I get it," he murmured.

John tightened his arms around him. "Where you get what?" he asked, confused.

"Rhythm. My bass parts. Everything, all my music. It's from your heartbeat. My whole life centers around your heartbeat." Paul shifted, leaning up on his elbow so John could see his face. "So," Paul whispered, his eyes as wide and unguarded as John had ever seen them. "Now you know."

He knew, of course - there was no one else on earth who ever saw how tender Paul could be - but he longed so much to hear the words that his eyes stung and his breath caught in his throat. "Tell me," he rasped. Three taps fell on his breastbone, the middle one the strongest. _I love you_ , from Paul's callused fingers. "You sing it to every bloody girl in the world, but not to me? Please, Paul, God, I need to hear it."

Paul's lips trembled. He closed his eyes and sang "I love you" in a falling half-cadence that hung in the air like perfume.

As elated as he was to finally hear the phrase, John knew what the confession had cost Paul. John swallowed all the words he longed to say and instead gathered Paul in his arms. 

He had no way of knowing that the next time Paul sang that phrase to him, he wouldn't be alive to hear it.

In blissful ignorance, John was content to let his lover listen to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

 

***  
END  
***

**Author's Note:**

> Lately I've had a thing for sweet, considerate John taking care of repressed, self-doubting Paul. Honestly, there's something WRONG with me...


End file.
